Inside, the air is thick and dry, full of the scent of paper and old toner. The room is bigger than I first thought—rows of cabinets, tall as I am, stretching in every direction. There’s a desk inthe center with a computer, a scanner, a metal bin labeled "SHRED." Above the desk, a sign: "Access by Authorization Only."
I start at the first row, searching for my name. MARCUS, AMARA, B. The folders are color-coded. Mine is blue. I slide it out.
My hands tremble as I open it. The first page is a photo of me, taken the day I arrived at Westpoint. My face looks younger, cheeks fuller, hair long and loose around my shoulders. I look happy. Below the photo is a list of biographical data: date of birth, parentage, medical history. Everything is correct. Everything is clinical.
The next page is a chart: Menstrual cycles, hormone levels, results from every physical I’ve ever taken. Notes in the margin, written in neat block letters: "Prime markers," "Excellent viability," "No familial defects." Next to those: "Mother: deceased (see notes)."
My hands shake harder.
The next page is a table, two columns. "Potential Matches," "Genetic Compatibility." At the top of the list: ROTH, JULIAN, E.
My stomach turns over. I grip the edge of the cabinet, fighting the urge to throw up.
There’s more. Pages of test results, blood panels, genetic screenings. Notes about psychological resilience, compliance, likelihood of successful conception. There are highlighted sentences: "Subject exhibits above-average emotional adaptability." "Subject is suitable for breeding under Board protocol."
The word—breeding—leaps out, bigger than the font it’s written in. I press my fist to my mouth, biting down until I taste blood.
I flip to the last page. A signed order from my father: "Release all records to the Board upon request. Do not notify the subject."
I can’t breathe.
I sink to the floor, folder clutched to my chest. The cold of the tiles seeps through my jeans, numbing my skin. I press my forehead to my knees, trying to make myself smaller, trying to disappear.
I sit there until the feeling passes, until my breath comes back, until my hands stop shaking enough to grip the folder again. I rifle through the pages, looking for anything that might be a mistake. There is none. Every line is a confirmation of what I already know: I am not a person. I am a product.
A file.
A vessel.
I don’t cry. I am too angry for tears. The anger feels good, a fire in the ruins. I want to burn this place down, scatter the ashes, make them all breathe the smoke.
I take out my phone, open the camera, and start taking pictures. Every page. Every chart. Every note in the margin. If they want a record, I’ll give them one. I photograph every inch of my own humiliation, storing it in the cloud, backing it up to my email, sending copies to Eve and to myself, so even if they try to erase me, I’ll still exist.
When I’m done, I stand. My legs are weak, but I make it to the bin labeled "SHRED." I take a handful of blank paper and run it through, just to hear the sound, to imagine what it would be like to destroy my own file.
I leave the folder on the desk, open, pages spilling out. I want them to know someone was here.
The folder. My file. My entire life. If there’s one, there are others.
Maybe there’s more to find.
This time, I go deeper into the cabinet.
The second row has files for every girl who’s ever run the Hunt. They’re arranged by year, by bloodline, by what matters to the Board. I start at the top: 2005, then 2010, 2015. The folders are different colors—red, blue, black. Some are thick, others razor thin.
I find my mother’s name. The folder is thin, barely a dozen pages. The photo is the same one from the mantle at home—her hair in a bun, eyes small and serious, lips flat. I remember thinking she looked mean in the picture, like she didn’t want to be there.
I read the summary page.
MARCUS, CECILIA, R.
DOB: 4-12-1976
ENROLLED: 1991
SELECTED FOR HUNT: 1993
ASSIGNED MATE: MARCUS, DEAN (ADMINISTRATIVE WAIVER)
